


Isle of Apples

by zephrene



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephrene/pseuds/zephrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for camelot_fics on LJ.  theme: "Forever and a Day"; challenges: use the word "winter", use no direct dialog, and set it outside Camelot.<br/>Morgana reflects, long years after the end of Arthur's reign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isle of Apples

The wind blew lonely and fierce across the Isle of Apples, stirred the branches of trees laid bare by winter, and sang through the wind chimes hung from the eaves of the long house on the cliff facing west across the sea. A wide veranda overlooked the water, furnished with chairs and a table and a spinning wheel. A pale-haired woman sat in one of the chairs, working a drop spindle with nimble hands. Sheep grazed in the valley between the cliff and the great hill at the center of the island, and on the other side of the hill fruit trees and vines ran down the slopes in even rows.

At the peak of the hill stood the ancient apple tree that gave the isle its name, and as the rising sun cleared the horizon the tree's shadow stretched across the valley until it touched the walls of the house.

Morgana sat among the gnarled and tangled roots of that tree, cradling a wide-mouthed grail between her hands. The vessel was lined with enamel the color of the night sky, and within it calm water became a mirror for her Sight.

As always, she looked for Merlin. He could, and had at times over the centuries, prevented her from seeing him, but today she found him easily. He was sitting on a jut of stone in a lush, green forest, looking out across a valley where a river had been dammed into a wide lake. It was evening there, and summer, so Morgana knew he must be on the other side of the world. She wished she could speak to him, as he sat there alone. She would tell him to have hope, that his exile would not be eternal. She would tell him that his dreams of Arthur's final death were false, that he could rest, that Kilgarrah's prophecy would yet come true. She would beg him for forgiveness, as she had long ago forgiven him.

But she could not reach him, not yet.

The songs said that Merlin was lost forever in the dark. They spoke of caves and shadows and sleep. He was not lost, nor was he asleep. He wandered, and she watched, and he knew she watched. And that was all. One day, she would reach out and he would be there, real and alive and upon her isle, just as one day Arthur would wake to the flower of his youth, as if the treachery of their past were a forgotten dream.

Nothing really lasts forever.

Morgana whispered a spell, and in her vision a breeze ruffled Merlin's hair. He ran his hand through it, with a sad smile, and sparks followed his fingertips. He wove lights into patterns as if they were string between his fingers, then let them vanish into the night. Beneath Morgana's apple tree, a shower of lights fell through the branches to rest upon her hair. She smiled, accepting the greeting for what it was, and hoped that Merlin knew, as she did, that their moments of magic were real.


End file.
